To Love

'TIS sad if Love should miss a Heart,
Yet sadder much to feel the Smart,
But who can Cupid's Wounds indure,
And have no Prospect of a Cure?
We Lovers are not look'd upon,
For what our Ancestors have done?
Wit and good Parts have slight Regard,
No Vertue can obtain Reward.
They ask what Coyn our Purses hold,
No Object's like a Heap of Gold.
But doubly be the Wretch accurst
Who taught us to esteem it first.
This Thirst of Gold incites one Brother
To ruine or destroy another:
Our Fathers we for Gold despise.
Hence Envy, Strife, and Wars arise:
And Gold's the Bane, as I could prove,
Of all that truly are in Love.